


Moments with Mischa

by Ravenstag



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 10:49:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2690039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenstag/pseuds/Ravenstag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Bedelia du Maurier disappears, Hannibal turns to the only person he can trust for advice.</p>
<p>His sister.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moments with Mischa

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a standalone piece, with a little implied Hannigram. I always wondered what Hannibal would do left to his own devices and in the company of his own mind.

He didn’t move the chairs in his office, not even when he was alone. They always remained facing each other, as they would if he had a patient there requiring his Psychiatric help. Now, this wasn’t particularly strange in itself, but Hannibal Lecter had the habit of favouring one of those chairs instead of the chairs behind his desk. When he was alone, he sat where his patient would have sat… where Will would have sat.

This time, he was the one who needed help and advice. He turned to the one person that he trusted above all others, the ghost of his sister, Mischa. He exhaled a breath he didn’t even know he had been keeping as he looked over at the empty chair. Hannibal saw something he knew others would never be able to see, the shape of his sister before she disappeared. The shape of his sister before the men who had kept them captive dismembered her and turned her into nothing but food.

She looked so much like Abigail and he believed that was why he always had the desire to nurture the young Hobbs girl. After all, to Mischa, he had been both father and brother for they had lost their parents when they had been very young. He’d wanted to take Abigail from the horrors and shape her into what Mischa once was, protect her the way that he had failed the only person to truly matter in his life.

His hand, older than that of the boy he had once been, gripped the chair of the arm as he spoke quietly and thoughtfully to the vision in front of him. He knew she couldn’t reply, so his brain filledi n the blanks. Unfortunately, that left a disjointed conversation, for Hannibal spoke aloud. Nonetheless, it provided him some insight into how he felt in that moment, as well as some relief from speaking with someone he trusted.

“Dear sister, it has been some time since I’ve sought solace in your company. Thank you again for obliging me,” He began, “I have missed your company more than words can express and I must apologise, as ever, for coming to you only in a time of need. Jack Crawford believes that he is closing in on me and I doubt that I can trust what Will Graham is becoming. He knows me too well and I wonder if I know him at all any longer.”

The silence that greeted him was enough of a confirmation of all that was in his mind. Will was transforming, adapting, becoming. In time, the creation would rebel against the creator or deny him. In many ways, Hannibal viewed himself as Doctor Frankenstein. Will was his monster and he had shaped the man’s gentle nature into something darker; something far more sinister had festered in the dark pit that grew within Will’s mind. Akin to Dr. Frankenstein, Hannibal was listening to the advice given to him by the one that metaphorically took the place of Frankenstein’s father. His own mind, conveyed through the ghostly visage of Mischa. It was his own voice that greeted him, not the tender voice of the sister he had adored.

“You will have to kill the monster.”

He nodded silently and stood, maroon eyes meeting those of the dark haired angel that sat before him, fists balling as resolve spread through his body. He would have to rid the world of his creation to protect himself, unless the man agreed to join him. He doubted that Will would, for he knew he was presented with one side of the man and that Jack Crawford and perhaps Alana Bloom were presented with the other side. He had taught Will well and perhaps the time inside a cell had served to help him change as well. Though Will would be resistant to admit it, they were closer in their beliefs than either would like to believe. They were two snakes pursuing each other through the grass, destroying those who would stop them.

He knew in his mind that he was now alone, unless he could present Will with that teacup that had shattered, restored to its former glory.

Casting one final look to the now empty chair, lips curved into a smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “Thank you, Mischa. As always, you have given me the advice I have so sorely required in my time of need. You open my eyes to the things that I am blind to. So proud of my creation, of playing god, that I did not realise that he would be my own hubris. He is the key to making me fall, and before others use him to that end, I shall glorify him. I shall _honour_ him.” His thoughts echoed the ideology of Garret Jacob Hobbs, he would feast on part of Will and the rest would be displayed.

He would display Will reverently, in the way he deserved, as a vengeful angel. Though he did not believe in god, and even denied him, Will would be his monument to his own beliefs. He would make Will a combination of what he saw in his own eyes and what Will believed himself to be.

No other would get this honour, no one had ever been has close to Hannibal as the other man had been. This would be done with the final vestige of the emotion that he hesitated to name, that rested in his body.

Love.


End file.
